


Between

by micehell



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, M/M, PWP-ish, hopeful end, post-DBIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-16
Updated: 2006-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was poetic, a wild kind of justice, that Garak should have admired, even sought after, the <i>honesty</i> of someone who was such a superior liar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between

Garak stood in the shadows. He'd spent much of his life there, flattered by their fit, but they chafed at him today.

Through the thick glass of the observation window, he watched the doctor. The human was moving slower than usual, the broad shoulders slumped, thinner than they'd been just a few weeks before. So much pressure on the man, so much of it self-inflicted. Garak thought he might wish to take some of it away.

There had been a time, also just a few weeks before, that Garak would have been sure of his feelings. Of course, he'd been sure of the doctor then, content to believe that the eager, earnest, well meaning, if slightly self-serving, Bashir might have some hidden depths, but none that Garak couldn't plumb eventually.

In his corner, hidden from any sight but his own, Garak laughed at his naiveté. That word, that state of mind, wasn't something usually associated with Cardassians in general, or Garak in particular, but it was certainly apt in the case. To be taken in by a gauche façade, by a pretty face… Tain would have laughed, and probably once again regretted not having killed Garak in the womb, if he were alive. It was almost enough to make Garak glad that he wasn't.

Garak had always been a liar, trained in it from the first time someone asked him who his father was. It was a skill he'd worked at, honed, and it had served him well in his profession. After all, what good was a tailor who couldn't tell a client how stunning they looked without keeping a straight face?

It was just that, for all his skill at lying, no one ever believed he _wasn't_ lying. His skill lay in the fact that they couldn't tell which of the pearly lies surrounded the grain of truth. His art lay in the fact that all of them did.

The doctor was standing straighter, rubbing at his back. The long hours, days, showed in the skin that was pulled too tight against the thin face, its normal coloring, usually one of his best features, pallid under the stark lights of the lab, under his exhaustion. From the frown on Bashir's face, it was unlikely that he would be freed from the lab any time soon, either.

Garak knew that he could probably make the quarantine easier for the doctor. With a few words, he could lessen that furrow between the graceful, arching brows. He wondered if he wanted to.

It was poetic, a wild kind of justice, that Garak should have admired, even sought after, the _honesty_ of someone who was such a superior liar. Of course, if Garak were being completely honest, and he smiled at the conceit, he knew that it wasn't Bashir's lies, or his own lack of suspicion, that was bothering him so. It was that Garak was used to the dynamics of their relationship. Liked being the teacher; the older, wiser, more sophisticated one, gently molding the doctor into an amalgamation of the best of the human's traits, and the even better of the Cardassian's.

Now it seemed as if he was simply the older, and he was too old to accept that change easily.

Bashir sat at one of the instrument-laden tables, putting his head down, his arms wrapped around it. There was defeat in the slope of those shoulders now. If you could believe in it, believe that the shoulders weren't as deceitful as the rest.

Garak sighed, irritated at himself. This maudlin sense of betrayal, this descent into self-pity, was such a human trait. That was another thing he'd been willfully blind to; the fact that he himself had changed even as he'd orchestrated Bashir's. He'd have to be careful, in the future, of taking on too many human faults.

And Garak knew, now that he'd finally stopped moping like one of the insipid creatures in Shakespeare's supposed tragedies, that he still had a future with the doctor. Like one of the Enigma tales the human claimed to dislike, Bashir told a different story depending on the audience's perspective. It would be, for those of certain tastes, interesting to read them all. For someone of Garak's tastes.

Stepping out of the shadows, Garak moved towards the doctor, stopping only at the physical barrier between. He rested his hand on the window, wondering if he should let Bashir sleep. He certainly looked as if he needed it.

But the doctor wasn't sleeping, and he lifted his head, face turned up, as if he were scenting for danger. Bashir turned and found it, a happy smile wiping away some of the visible fatigue, until he remembered. The smile faded, and he took a hesitant step towards the window. "Is there something you needed, Garak?"

Garak shook his head, letting his own smile, smug in knowing something that Bashir didn't, show clearly. "I wanted to see how you were doing. You've been in here for days; surely you must be nearing a cure now. Or at least an end to the need for quarantine."

Bashir hugged his arms around himself, looking for all the world like a child trying not to cry. His eyes, larger still in a face pared down by worry, made the illusion complete. Garak wondered if it was all illusion, and felt his own arms twitch in an instinctive need to comfort. The doctor just shook his head. "I have no idea of how to cure this thing. Most of the crew of the Bellerophon are improving, but two of them died. While they might be anomalous, I can't afford to take that kind of chance, especially since I have no idea how long an incubation period this thing has. The crew was already so ill by the time they got here none of them were able to give me a clear timetable. It'll be at least another week of quarantine for all of us if I can't find a cure."

The doctor paused, as if debating what to say, then, his face flushing with some much needed color, he stammered out, "Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?"

Garak pretended to consider it, pursing his lips in exaggerated thought. "No, I can't really think of anything." He held up his hand, counting out on his fingers, "Let's see, there was asking how you were doing, and inquiring about the cure, or at least an end to quarantine, and telling you that I regret how things ended the last time we were together."

It took a moment before it registered with Bashir, but then a smile fluttered on his face, still not quite trusting what he'd heard. "You do? Regret it, that is."

Waving his hand in casual dismissal, Garak threw their argument, his argument, away. "I was perhaps, what was it you called it? _Hypocritical_ in my assessment of your behavior. It's just that I hadn't expected… well, upon consideration, I've reconciled my own misperceptions with your deliberate ones. It would be silly to throw away such a… friendship as ours. Especially considering how well-matched we've turned out to be."

Bashir frowned, but then shook his head, giving a rueful laugh. "I suppose we are well-matched at that." He stepped closer to the window, his smile steadying, becoming realer, a truth not hidden at all. "I'm happy you reconsidered, though I could wish your timing was a little better."

Looking at that smile, its long absence made all the more noticeable by its return, Garak felt his lack of timing, too. If they'd been in his quarters, they could have been Elim and Julian, without any walls between them.

Julian's hand came up to rest on the clear glass, the visible wall between them, his shrug resigned to the unwanted wait. "Later, then." Partly a question, mostly a promise.

Elim touched that cool, glass-smooth hand. He imagined warm flesh in its place, saw it in Julian's eyes. Elim felt a sly smile tug at his lips. Their relationship really _hadn't_ been changed that much by the too-close brush of truth; it seemed there were still things one wise, old Cardassian could teach a young, naïve human.

Keeping his hand in place, the connection between them, Elim used his other hand to unfasten the waist of his pants, pulling out a cock already hardening with anticipation. "No, now."

Julian's eyes widened, color spreading again over his cheeks, down his neck. "You can't be serious. You want to do that here? Anyone could come in and catch us."

Elim just nodded, starting to languorously stroke his now fully hard cock, letting the sight, and the thought of getting caught, heighten Julian's arousal, not feeling any need to mention that he'd put a lock-out on the outer door when he'd come in. Not that he'd expected this, but it never hurt to be cautious.

Julian looked at the door, as if expecting someone to burst through at that moment, looked back at Elim, horror and need fighting on his face. He bit his lip, clearly torn, but his hand was already moving towards his own pants. "I'm sure I'll be sorry," was all he said, his own cock, filling quickly, now in his hand.

Without any conscious decision, they matched each other's rhythms, the speed and fierceness of their strokes growing as need and affection, and lingering traces of fear and hurt, drove them on, always held together by the touch of their hands to glass grown warm between them.

It was too quick, too little, and it was enough for the moment as they both came, white and gray pearls splashing on the window, a truth between them.

They broke apart, cleaning up, and Garak felt weeks of restless sleep catch up to him. He saw the same fatigue settle back on the doctor. He trailed his hand along the glass again, but it was cold, its magic flown. "Rest," was what he said. I missed you, was what he meant.

A wan smile, affection in its pale curve, was on Bashir's face. "I will," was what he said, an answer to both.

Making sure that Bashir could see him unlocking the door, smirking at the surprise he knew was on the doctor's face, he walked out of the shadows as he left.

/story


End file.
